


Midsummer Dream

by dismalzelenka



Series: Prompts and Commissions [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Beard Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Non Inquisitor Lavellan, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Plot? What's a Plot?, Scout Lavellan - Freeform, Sex in Someone Else's Bed, Sexual Teasing, shameless boning with other people's ocs, she pounce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 19:05:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13841085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dismalzelenka/pseuds/dismalzelenka
Summary: A DWC prompt response to "40. Scent. Let's see how observant you are about my baby childs and their smells. "Oranges and Black Lotus" Have fun, bruh!"Faeven returns from a scouting mission and really misses her Beardwall. Blackwall feels guilty about his incredibly impure thoughts about Faeven when suddenly she's straddling him in the snow. They get a room. Harritt thinks it's pretty uncool of them to use his.





	Midsummer Dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SassholeNuts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassholeNuts/gifts).



She has been away for weeks. He would never admit it to anyone, but she spilled her perfume onto one of her shirts once, and he’s been sleeping with it under his pillow since the day she left. He drifts off every night to the scent of citrus and lotus flowers and the heady scent of something else he can’t quite identify. Sometimes he closes his eyes and strokes himself to completion with images of her in his head and the smell of her in his lungs, and then he feels shame because they’re supposed to be friends and she’s so young and everything in him demands that he protect her.

He doesn’t like to think about having to protect her from himself.

He’s in the tavern when the horn sounds. It’s midday, but it’s his day off, and he’s two pints in and halfway through a third. He jumps to his feet and knocks his mug over in the process, but he just leaves it and runs to the gates. People think he’s hurrying to help ready the stables for the Inquisitor’s horses, and he’s more than happy to let them think his sense of personal duty is that strong.

His breath catches in his lungs when he sees her, perched on her Fresian with her bare feet hooked daintily in the stirrups. Her daggers gleam at her belt like the snow on the lake in the midday sun, and her hair - the color of obsidian but so much softer - is tied back in a messy ponytail, loose strands flying in her face with the breeze. She catches his eye and waves, and her entire face lights up when he waves back.

Her horse is still a good two hundred paces from the stables when she dives off and sprints at him. She’s small, but her speed catches him off guard, and she tackles him straight back into the snow. She giggles mischievously and unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt. Her hands wander into his chest hair, and he feels his face turning red as his cock springs to life at her touch.

Maker’s balls.

He coughs uncomfortably when her fingers wander down his chest. “My lady,” he manages to choke out, “perhaps we should - the horses - the rest of your party still needs -”

He can’t quite get the words out, and he’s momentarily thankful his beard hides so much of his unbearably red face. She waggles her eyebrows suggestively and moves to stand, but before rising to her feet, she sits back and grinds straight into his cock with a smirk on her face. She knows, Andraste’s beard, she _knows_ and it’s all he can do to hold in a sputter when he rolls over and climbs to his feet.

“Your face,” she says with a grin. She pokes him in the cheek to punctuate her words. “Red like a strawberry. You hungry?”

“I…what?”

“You’re looking healthy. Shit, _smile_ , I’m complimenting you.”

He can’t help but grin back at her then. “I’ll always take a compliment from a beautiful lady.”

He silently thanks the Maker that he managed to sound coherent this time, but her next words send his mind careening straight off the path.

“There’s plenty more of those in my private quarters.”

His cock can’t possibly get harder, he thinks. He is sorely mistaken.

* * *

Faeven relishes the look in Blackwall’s eyes when she makes him squirm. The bulge in his trousers was a positively delightful sight, and she caught herself wanting nothing more than to hear him while she runs her tongue down his shaft. 

Creators, his cock would look magnificent with her hands around it.

“There’s plenty more of those in my private quarters,” she says, her voice as suggestive as she can manage without actually kneeling to speak directly to his bits.

He chokes.

“I have to share a very juicy secret with the Warden,” she announces loudly to her companions, who are currently staring at her with expressions of varying amusement on their faces. “I’ll see the rest of you later.” She grabs a fistful of his shirt and all but drags him inside Harritt’s cabin, ignoring the blacksmith’s indignant protests and locking the door behind her. 

* * *

Blackwall finds himself repeatedly underestimating just how strong his little elf can be. He curses himself for thinking of her as his, but then she shoves him against the wall and kisses him, and suddenly he finds himself wondering if such a thing is possible. He wants her, Maker, he’s wanted her for so _long_ but he’s never dreamed she would be attracted to a burnt out old man like him.

Her tongue in his mouth says otherwise.

She kisses like she fights, agile and nimble and full of energetic passion. She twists a hand in his hair, and he suspects he could lose himself in her kisses alone. Her other hand wanders down to his trousers, and he idly wonders in a haze of arousal if she fucks like she fights, too. Then her fingers brush against his cock through his clothing and he finds himself too preoccupied to think about much of anything.

She’s somehow undone his belt and untied his pants without him noticing. He feels her grip tighten around a fistful of his shirt again and he lets her guide him in a daze, her lips and tongue trailing down his chest all the while. She nips at his chest hair with a satisfied giggle and shoves him back onto…Maker’s balls, were they in Harritt’s bed? He tries not to think about it too hard. When she straddles him and grinds into his cock again, he finds not thinking much easier.

* * *

Faeven practically rips his shirt open, running her fingers down his chest with a purr of contentment. She could nibble at his chest all day. Her lips and teeth find the soft skin of his neck at the base of his beard, and she nips at him there before trailing her mouth down his chest - Creators, that chest, hard planes of muscle corded tightly under a soft layer of thick, dark hair that always smells so uniquely like _him_.

She yanks his trousers and smalls to his ankles with one swift pull and giggles when he kicks his feet to divest himself of them completely without a word. She’d been fantasizing about his cock while lying in her bedroll at night the entire time she was on the road, and here was the real thing right in front of her, and it was positively magnificent. He shivers when she brushes her fingertips against it, tracing the prominent veins that ran from base to tip. A groan slips from his lips when she wraps her hand around the shaft. He feels like steel encased in silky velvet.

“Faeven-” he croaks, but she shushes him with another kiss and slips out of her riding pants and smalls. She was already wet back on the road to Haven imagining this scenario; now that it’s playing out before her very eyes she’s positively dripping with need. She parts herself with her fingers and slides his shaft between her lips, rubbing him teasingly against her entrance. His face contorts in pleasure. She nips at his chest again and grinds into him agonizingly slowly. He tries to thrust upward into her, but she lifts her hips ever so slightly and evades him.

“Not yet, my darling bear,” she giggles, one hand swirling lazily around a nipple, the other running through his beard. His beard is soft and smells freshly oiled, like leather and musk and…Creators, is that citrus she smells? She sniffs curiously and realizes with a start that his beard - and the rest of his face - smells suspiciously like the perfume oil she dabs on her wrists and neck daily.

Her lips part in delight. So _that’s_ where her missing shirt went.

“You stole my shirt,” she teases, tapping his nose with her fingertip.

“What?”

“You _missed_ me!” she crows triumphantly, grinding into him all the while, slowly going faster with excitement. A strangled noise escapes his throat when she slows again to an almost unbearable pace.

“You’re going to be the death of me, my lady,” he groans. 

She halts and plants a chaste kiss on his nose. “I should probably stop, then,” she coos in a conspiratorial whisper.

A growl rumbles somewhere deep in his chest at that, and suddenly she feels strong arms envelop her and flip her over onto the mattress. She gasps in delight when she feels his breath ghosting over her mound, and when he parts her with his tongue she closes her eyes and whimpers. His beard is scratchy against her thighs, and the mere thought alone is enough to make her shiver. When she opens her eyes again, the sight of him between her legs is quite possibly the most delightful thing she’s ever seen.

He laps at her slowly, dragging his tongue from the bottom of her slit to the tip of her clit as he stretches her with his fingers, first one, then a second, pumping them in and out slowly until she’s writhing and gasping his name, fingers gripping tightly to threadbare sheets.

When he adds a third she nearly comes undone. He’s stretching her in the best way possible, and she whines when she imagines his cock doing the same thing.

He flicks his tongue against the tip of her pearl and wiggles his fingers forward, and she suddenly feels her end crash over her, reeling, tumbling, head over heels into the stars. Her legs are trembling, she’s clenching involuntarily around his fingers, and she’s almost positively sure that yell she just heard was her own.

She’s barely started to come down from the high when he straddles her, leaning over her body and kissing her deeply. She tastes herself on his tongue and whimpers into his mouth when he presses himself against her entrance.

“You,” he growls, pulling away, “are the best damn thing I’ve ever tasted.”

He eases into her slowly, pushing slightly deeper with each gentle thrust, and she suddenly realizes why he’d used his fingers first. He’s thick, and the way his cock stretches her borders on painful at first, but he is surprisingly patient and gentle for someone who only moments ago flipped her onto her back like a man possessed with desire.

She’s heard of mages being possessed by literal desire, being tempted in their dreams with fantasies beyond imagining. She wonders if any of them feel half as good as the feeling of her lover on top of her, stretching her, filling her and stoking the fire between her legs, fucking her softly and rocking her body against the bed.

Lover. She rolls the word around in her head and discovers she rather likes the way it sounds.

One more thrust and she moans as he’s completely sheathed inside her. She needs him, she realizes, needs to feel him, needs him to _move_.

"Please,” she whispers, and he does. 

* * *

He still can’t believe what’s happening. Faeven, lovely Faeven, sweet, cheeky, sassy _Faeven_ is on her back beneath him, whimpering his name with every slow thrust.

A sharp pang of guilt drives into his chest when he realizes the name she’s calling him is a lie, but she sweet sensation of her clenching gently around his length dulls the thought enough for him to shove it to the back of his head. 

She’s so beautiful with her hair tangled beneath her head, cheeks rosy with arousal, beads of sweat shimmering on her skin. And she’s tight - Maker preserve him - she’s so tight and warm and he’s positive he won’t last much longer, especially if she keeps doing whatever it is she’s doing with her muscles around his cock.

Her fingers find his and their hands tangle together as he thrusts in and out of her. His forehead rests on hers, and she lets out a sweet sigh and meets his lips with hers, eager, needy, desperate, and so, so soft. He catches her lower lip with his teeth and tugs gently. Her eyes fly open before they flutter closed again, but her kiss deepens, her hands slip out of his and cling to his back with increasing fervor as she rocks her hips in time with his movements.

He feels the edge of his release and slows his pace - he wants to make this last, to savor the way she feels around him - but she whines and rocks back against him again, and suddenly his resolve snaps in two. He needs her, he realizes in the back of his mind as he drives into her. He needs her like he needs air and water, needs her big eyes, her brilliant smile, her biting wit. She fits so perfectly against him and all he can think is how _good_ she feels and how all he wants is to wake up to that beautiful face next to him every morning. She drives him mad, and he suddenly can’t imagine a life without her in it.

He cradles her to his chest when he comes, their hips stuttering together in an awkward rhythm as waves of pleasure crash through his body. She’s radiant and he can’t breathe. For a moment he wonders if he’s dreaming, or even still alive, but when he opens his eyes she’s still there beneath him with that grin on her face.

They both jump when Harritt pounds on the door. “If the two of you are quite finished, I’ve got work to do that requires supplies,” he calls out, his tone annoyed and full of exasperation. “Supplies you’ve gone and locked me out of in my own house. I hope you plan on washing those sheets!” 

Faeven’s eyes widen, and she claps a hand over her mouth to stifle the giggles that burst from her lips. 

“Welcome home, my lady,” he murmurs, a grin spreading across his face.

She kisses him again, all soft lips and feather light fingers and the scent of citrus and-

Black lotus, he realizes suddenly, and he laughs in spite of himself. A hallucinogenic flower. Her perfume choice suddenly makes a lot more sense.

She pouts. “What’s so funny?” 

“You smell like a midsummer dream,” he says, and her face lights up with delight. 

She buries her face in his chest. “You’re the first one to ever catch that,” she says between contented giggles. 

He buries his nose in her hair and breathes her in. He feels honored, and for the first time in years, he feels at peace.


End file.
